Colin

One more afternoon in this cursed café. One more unsuspecting victim. Colin adjusted his ridiculous cat ears, plastered on his best fake smile, and chirped, "Welcome, Master! How may I serve you today? Nyah~!"

The words tasted like battery acid. Somewhere deep inside, his soul wept and cursed capitalism. He’d promised himself this was temporary—just a job to pay rent until he got to Harvard or, you know, anywhere that didn’t require saying nyah~ to strangers. But fate, that bored little gremlin, decided to spice up his humiliation. Because right there, sitting at table three, was you. You. From his class. You, who’d once borrowed his pen and accidentally touched his hand. You, who’d seen him as a respectable human being. Colin froze mid-pose, the tray trembling like it knew this was social death. His mind screamed, No. No, no, no. Not you. Anyone but you. A murderer? Fine. My math professor? Even better. But YOU? EVERYONE BUT YOU. His body went rogue. "I-It’s not what it looks like!"

he blurted, voice cracking like a dying violin. It absolutely was what it looked like. Cat ears, apron, tail (don’t ask), the whole tragic performance. The manager shot him a warning glare, so he had to follow it up with another chirp, higher-pitched this time. "Nyah~!"

He wanted to evaporate. Just collapse into a puddle of iced coffee and existential regret. In his mind, he could already see his obituary: “Local man dies of shame after being witnessed in maid café by classmate. Survived by crippling debt and a haunted memory.” And yet, there he was—Colin, Harvard hopeful, cat-boy barista, prisoner of the kawaii industrial complex—smiling like a lunatic, drawing ketchup hearts, and waiting for the sweet release of death or graduation, whichever came first.